Total Control

There’s been hoo haa on the interwebz and crusty media overnight about this little number, a “novelty” marketed by one of the big seppo chain stores that’s been devouring our local book shops. My initial thought was, “Well, it gives the wankers who’d but something like that something new to play with – geez, their tiny little appendages will be relieved.”, closely followed by “It’s good, in that they’ll waste $15 on it that might otherwise have been spent on home-brewed crystal meth”.

But then I reconsidered. I wouldn’t mind having a man remote, but the buttons wouldn’t be wasted on trivia like beer and stripping. Who wouldn’t love a “Your career is just as important as mine, so I’ll stay home with the kids” function, or perhaps you could amp up “Who cares about the footy? I’d rather have family time.”

If you could remote control your partner, which button would get the most wear?


68 Responses

  1. Hmm…well, I have a partner who is uncharacteristically responsive to most of my shrieks, requests and unreasonable demands so I don’t see the need for one of these in my household.

    Let’s just say that if such a thing existed – and of course I would be generous enough to share my magic with the Sisterhood if it did – the button that would get worn out would be ‘Honey, the cat/dog has just vomited on the couch/floor/back seat of the car again. Would you fix that please?’

    I don’t think I’d survive for long without that man. Bless his little vomit encrusted hands.

    • Good work, Bloke.

      But should your little furry treasures be spewing so frequently, Quokka? They haven’t been snacking on the Irish next-door, have they?

  2. Hmmm not sure of the rating on your blog dear, so I won’t get explicit. You could probably guess anyway. Ask me again in a coupla years, my answer may have changed, depending of course on how my current “relationship” pans out!

    • What is the FS update, Mayhem? I hear rumours and vague allusions to a (very) good time had by all, in which case – huzzah!

      Looking forward to meeting you at the Brekkie Bacon and Faff fest.

  3. I think I’d rather use a shock collar.

  4. I like your style, Izzie! Do you have to keep changing the batteries or can you get a rechargeable model?

    Solar would rock, but you’d have to make sure he got plenty of time changed to the clothesline to keep the amps up.

  5. Rumours true! More detail on my blog, as well as the shitfight that erupted last weekend over my plans to move permanently to Melbourne.

  6. I’ve seen those Barking Dog shock collars and have often been tempted to fit his mother with one for Xmas. And leave it on for the rest of the year….

  7. You might have to put one of those plastic cones around her head, too – in case she chews on it or tries to claw it off

  8. Quokka, the Boss bought his mother-in-law a chair for Christmas, but she refuses to sit in it. I think she saw him plugging it in. Pity.

    Knowing the Boss, I’d be wearing out the button that says: “Put that bloody remote down! I don’t have time for sex, and you can get your own damned beer. Oh, and STOP hitting the mute button!”

    Assignment number two is finished. It’s a steaming chunk of unmitigated crap, but it’s finished. Two more to go! Loving your blog to bits, Madam, even though it puts my pathetic attempts at writing to shame. C U when #3 is finished!

  9. Hehehe. He should have tried getting her tiddly on rum balls, first.

    Conratulations, Catty: the two sweetest words known to any writer… No, not “steaming crap” – “It’s finished!”
    You’re 66.66 (recurring) % of the way there. You can do it!

    We’ll still be here, faffing on, after #3.

  10. Faff? did someone say Faff?
    I won’t get issued with Red White and Blue cards for waffling on?

    I may never leave.

    Hey Catty, a friend of mine who lectures at UQ has this to say about assignments ‘It doesn’t need to be perfect, it just needs to be done.’ I love that man.

    I have one big ugly assignment due in four weeks which I’d better get a wriggle on with. Won’t stop me faffing though. Not here, at any rate.

    MM you were right about the Irish, they started on Friday night and kept going all weekend. Didn’t hear squeak out of them on Wednesday though, so at least they got it out of their system. Did I whine about that? I’m horribly sleep deprived from their antics – little shits – so forgive me if I repeat myself.

    They vanished into the night sometime after midnight on Friday, into three or four maxi taxis. It takes ages for them to get organized so the bloody taxi is chugging along outside and they’re skolling their drinks and throwing empty bottles over their shoulders, all the while yelling out ‘Aisling, Aisling’ (AKA Ashley) Where the fook are ya? Hurry the fook ooop!’ until finally Aisling yelled back ‘I’m in the toilet! I’m STOOK!’
    Stupid bitch had locked herself in.
    Seriously, its a fucking SNIB lock, right below the handle how fucking hard can it be?

    So they all stomped back up to the flats to figure out the best way to rescue her.

    BANG! There’s this god almighty smash, followed by a jingle and a clank, which we assume was her rescuers kicking the door in and the door knob bouncing off the terrazo floor.

    Dream tenants, to be sure.

  11. Oh, MM, back to some other conversation, our cats are fluffy and get furballs. And despite being indoor, and having an enclosure, they still manage to catch creatures, which they then throw up.
    They are off for their third haircut for the season, tomorrow. There will be vomit aplenty after that.
    Vet says they’re normal. As normal as my cats can be, given that they live with me.

    Dog is an idiot. He tried to drink seawater when we were out at Sandgate the other day and vomited all the way home and didn’t stop till 9pm. Some days they just conspire to puke and poop their way through my day. Things could be worse, I could have kids.

    • Long story short, my Melbourne daughter got free rent in South Yarra for a while, in return for looking after two of the ugliest cats ever born. Devon Rex’s, both about 18-19 years old. Normal? Oooh no. Audrey (aka BatCat) spent her last years in and under a sleeping bag in the living room. When she went wandering, Sandy found her surrounded by neighbours who were wondering “what it is”. Mutant possum seemed to be the consensus.

      • The Devon Rex is an aesthetically challenged feline, it’s true – I think the origami ears are particularly wrong.

        Perhaps the biggest affront to the gene library of a species perpetrated by selective breeding is a dog called the Chinese Crested Hairless. To augment their devastating appearance they seem to all have vile temperaments, too!

  12. I’ll give you a card, Quokka – the Platinum Faff license. You can say what you want, when you want here. No censorship or snide put-downs, guaranteed. And best of “look” for the Gnarly Assignment from the Black Lagoon. Soon, it too will be done!

    You’re having an interesting time of it, in your inner city Bohemian environment.

    I thought it would be all macchiatos over brunch, followed by a stroll to GOMA while discussing what the new French philosophers are up to… instead it’s drunken Irish backpackers conducting ad hoc home demolitions and vomiting companion animals. Funny how life works out….

  13. God no.
    I’ve lived in the suburb since 1987. Before it got trendy, when it was still mainly migrant families and uni people, I loved it.
    In the last 5 – 10 years, there’s been a lot of problems with drugs and alcohol here.
    There’s a heroin treatment clinic down on the main road, and the restaurant strip opposite closes early in the evenings because its a hangout for junkies and dealers and the cops won’t do a damned thing to stop it.
    There’s some public housing around here and the inmates follow you if you try to go to the corner store or they hang out at the bus stops all day hassling people for drug – er ‘bus’ money.
    I’m really sick of contending with people who are off their heads on drugs and alcohol and I can’t wait to sell up and leave. When we buy our next house I’ll be vetting the neighbours to make sure they’re all over fifty, don’t smoke dope all FKN day, aren’t raging alcoholics, and aren’t taking meth on weekends.

    The reason the cops never turned up to deal with my complaint about the Irish and their wild party on Friday night was because they were busy dealing with all the violence in the area. My spouse heard another party up the road erupt into a full on turf war between Two Tribes. The cops closed the street, had a couple of cars there, and eventually managed to shut the thing down and take a few idiots away in the paddy wagon.

    We moved out to Redcliffe last winter while the builder was renovating our house and it was quiet as the tomb. We loved it. I think it has some problem areas with Islanders and there’s some bogans about, but everyone I met (dog walking – I met a lot of people that way) said that they loved it. In the next few years I think we’ll either move out to the peninsula or Shorncliffe area, although I’d prefer Perth. Real estate is v. expensive in the latter but my plan would be to find an expensive suburb full of pensioners and settle there. I’d never live in another trendy suburb. Its the ‘gentrification’ around here that attracted the parasites, and crime went up accordingly when the migrants left and the DINKS moved in.

    A lot of the migrant families sold up and moved away when land values skyrocketed around here, which has meant an increase in rentals, so there’s a lot of slum lords who don’t take care of the properties and turn a blind eye to antisocial behaviour.

    That said, I think its hard to get decent tenants around here. My old landlord of 7 years (before we bought our house) had two properties in Highgate Hill – he lived in Sydney so got an agent to manage them. For years after I left, he struggled to get decent tenants, but there was just a series of people who trashed the place and wound up having issues with drugs, alcohol and domestic violence.

    He got the shits with it, sold his properties and took up art collecting as a more profitable and less stressful investment strategy. He bought a unit in Sydney and vetted all the tenants/neighbours to make sure they were all over 50. He says the drug/alcohol/out of control behaviour issue is much worse in Sydney, and having spent a few weekends down there at The Rocks, I’m inclined to agree.

  14. Horrors… sure has changed from the West End I used to know. I spent about a decade from the mid 80s into the 90s living in New Farm, and we’d often go over the bridge for ethnic food or to visit friends.

    I remember it as a quaint little village stuck in a loop of the river near the city. Nonas and Yayas in perpetual black would toddle around the intersection of Vulture Street and Boundary Rd doing their shopping, with a healthy mixture of hippies, punks, freaks and the odd city suit. The worst violence known would be some argument over chess players in a cafe over whether they preferred Picasso or Matisse.

    Okay, I’m exaggerating a bit, there’s always been a bit of trouble round the park and down the odd dark alley, but it used to be safe to walk the streets, damn it. Meanwhile New Farm, which was the haunt of junkies and transsexuals (and a fair few junkie transsexuals) has been gentrified within an inch of it’s life and you’d have to be a drug addicted, cross dressing member of the Royal family to afford a flat there.

    I know I’m getting old because I miss the good old days…

    Come North – the Peninsula if you must, or even further up the Coast. There’s the odd glassing at the pub just up the road from me, but the dog walking is companionable and at night it’s so quiet I can hear the waves crash on the beach. Mind you, if you do need a cop you’re out of luck. The two officers on duty for the Northern Beaches overnight spend most of their time with brawling yobs around the Noosa nitespots, I believe. But then, the frontier atmosphere suits some residents!

  15. LMAO at your Irishmen being carted away in the Paddy wagon, Quokka! Did they take Mick as well as Paddy?

    It’s a good thing something made me laugh. I’ve been miserable all morning. Just got assignment #1 back from the tutor. To paraphrase my learned instructor, my story was overly sentimental and melodramatic, with a soppy ending. I was crushed! Although this was not my favourite piece, it was far and away my best.

    Screw this. I’m going back to writing country songs. Country music fans LIKE sentimental and soppy. And the royalties are better.

    I hope you find a good suburb soon, Quokka. It may please you to know that the house I rented in Queensland was owned by an Irishman. Suffice to say, he copped a little of the Karma deserved by your neighbours. I think he converted to Christianity when I moved out – he was on his knees thanking God, anyway.

    We have good neighbours here in Melbourne. But then, we are five minutes drive away from Ramsay Street.

    And now, I have to get back to assignment #3. Or maybe I’ll just head down to the nearest honky tonk to look for ex boyfriends to write songs about.

  16. Oh, poor Catty. I just failed to final in a writing comp, if it makes you feel any better.

    It’s all really subjective… one person’s overly sentimental melodrama is another person’s literary lifeblood. One of my best friends writes romance and she tells me that every 5 seconds another Mills&Boon is sold – so whether or not egghead tryhard Uni tutors approve, there is unquestionably a market.

    C&W people have much better wardrobes, too – I’d rather wear Wranglers and snakeskin boots than a black turtleneck and jaded expression, any day!

    How about a song about my ex? A little something entitled “Lower than a rattlesnake’s limbo pole” perhaps?

  17. Ha! I was heading out for Doggie walkies around 4pm and I almost tripped over a couple of cops who were headed next door for a friendly chat with some of the residents.
    Things have been strangely subdued since they departed.

    When we got back in an hour or so later, the Irish were heading off in their soccer uniforms, presumably to play soccer.

    They’ve just returned, the most obnoxious one of their set sporting an ugly white cast on his right arm. Mmm…now not being locals, I’m guessing that wasn’t covered by medicare.

    Since misfortune comes in threes, I wonder if fate will bless us all with a curling iron/couch combination inferno later this evening?

    And yes, MM, that’s the West End I loved, and which I miss. Its still kind of interesting to visit, but to tell the truth I preferrred Fremantle, when we were over in Perth. Its still got that grungy migrant feel to it, the Italians just seem to own the place. One of the great tragedies of my existence was when Angie’s pizza trattoria on Dornoch Terrace shut down.

    Ladies, commiserations re: your artistic endeavours.
    This is why I don’t try!

  18. Awesome news… looks like their fabled luck has deserted your Irish. Perhaps they taunted one leprechaun too many?

    Mindful of the rule of three, I don’t actually wish them harm, you understand… just that they might get an insatiable urge to go visit Adelaide for a long while, and that they might be replaced with a block booking of Carmelite nuns on a study trip. Or some other people who’ve taken a vow of silence and obedience.

    I loved Angies! Did you ever go to Lucky’s Trattoria on Ann St in the Valley, Quokka?

  19. I vaguely remember Lucky’s, but think I was probably young and drunk if I passed through those doors.

    I have fond memories of a few dinner parties at Enzos, down in West End opposite the Melbourne Hotel.

    The flats were uncharacteristically quiet last night.
    Apart from the sound of the smoke alarms going off at regular intervals. So I’m guessing the cops had something to do with reinstalling those suckers.


  20. *sigh* Ah, to be young and drunk again. Fun times… as far as I can remember. Actually, if it wasn’t for turning thirty I wouldn’t really be aware that I’d had a twenties.

    Bad news on the Green Menace. The police should spend their time making the streets safer for Aussie kiddies, not saving evolutionary remnants from themselves. Hopefully the smoke detectors are the old fashioned ones that go off every time someone burns toast or has a bong, not the fancy pants ones that actually detect harmful vapours.

    Then you’ll still be in with a chance of them dropping a ciggie on something plasticy and slowly suffocating as it smoulders.

  21. Oh yes, the old slumlord had those suckers installed under duress, when the government forced him to after the Childers backpacker fire. They are indeed the cheap and nasty type which are set off by cigarette smoke, bacon fat, cooking toast (no need to burn it to set those babies off).

    I believe they’re the brand that get louder and shriller if you shake a grimy fist at them and yell ‘Fook you, you mongrel thing.’

    We had a lovely quiet night after the cops were here yesterday, and whatever Paddy is taking to soothe the pain of his fractured wrist it’s working wonders on his personality.
    God bless prescription painkillers.

    As you may recall, dear readers, Paddy set his mattress out to dry in the rain last Sunday, presumably after flooding it with his own urine follow St. Patrick’s day festivities. A new mattress arrived today so I’m taking comfort from the knowledge that he’s spent 7 days sleeping in the moist musky sponge of his own poisoned kidneys.

    • Quokka, you’re an urban poet with transgenerational appeal:
      “moist musky sponge of his own poisoned kidneys” is a haunting image that will endure in my memory. No, really. I’ve been trying for a while to erase the image and it will not go away!

      I’ve had an interesting weekend. A young lad who came over to play with Magic Man kicked the power cord to my computer out of the wall while they were slaying trolls online… frying the bit of Windows that previously enabled it to boot up. Luckily my tame geek was happy to do a Sunday housecall, and even luckier, despite slaving away over a hot master cylinder for 3 and a half freaking hours, he only charged me $70 to fix the thing up. However, I was somewhat disenchanted to say the least. I broke my favourite coffee cup – the one that used to say “My only real fear is that there’s no such thing as PMS and this is my real personality”. And Magic Man developed an acute middle ear infection and is due to go away on school camp tomorrow.

      What do you think? Things can only get better, or it’s just the thick end of the downhill slide wedge? Anyway, thanks for letting me whine. Sometimes you just need to share the misery.

    • Oh yes, pure poetry that. Now to get it out of my head.

  22. Thank you, thank you.
    Haunting is my specialty.
    I’m practicing for the afterlife so I can come back and attend to any and all unfinished business.

    And remember – A misery shared is a misery doubled. According to my calculations, when Catty and Mayhem show up, you can consider that quadrupled. I think that’s how it works, anyway. Well, it seems to be working that way for you, which sucks.
    Commiserations on the miseries.
    May they pass swiftly.

    Check with Catty, but from what I know, Murphy’s Law says that kids always develop middle ear infections, bronchitis and appendicitis the day before they are due to go to camp.
    Well, I always did.

    Regardless of my complaint, (and when it came to camping, I had many) I was always given shots, loaded up with tablets and dispatched, whining, on the school bus, along with at least half a dozen other snotty, inflamed, whining classmates, and alongside an annoying sample of healthy ones, all of whom would SING.

    Back in those days, after two hours of choking back your nausea on a mountain-bound bus with no air con, no seat belts and, you suspected, no brakes, you’d arrive at The Last Frontier, to discover that you would be spending the next three days inside huts called ‘Wattle’ and ‘Mallee’ and ‘Ring Bark’, all of which had chicken wire over the louvres to discourage (but not deter) the entry of possums, spiders larger than your fist, and reptiles. The wind would howl through the (broken) louvres, you’d discover that you’d been allocated the bunk above the class bully, and suddenly you would realize that you had bigger problems in life than the likelihood of waking up with a ruptured ear drum and a pillow stained with pus.

    You’d prod the mattress, realize that it smelled and felt as if it had been stuffed with fresh pine needles, and the occasional splintered pine cone, and you’d wonder if the blood stains on the mattress protector had been followed up with a police investigation and a chalk outline.

    I have no recollection of anything that ever happened beyond this point, apart from some disturbing images of singing hymns in the food hall and eating apples and bread for supper when the power went out.
    And stayed out.

    I think it was zombies, but thankfully they don’t eat brains infected with pus.

    Tell your kid that, and stick him on the school bus, safe in the knowledge that the healthy little bastards will be the ones that get their BRAINZ sucked out by the hordes of undead that await him at Camp Hellhole.

    • Thanks for your cheery words, Quokka. I told Magic Man your “zombies won’t eat pus” theory this morning before he left, and he said “There’ll be zombies on camp, as well as archery, abseiling and fires? Awesome!”

      Despite the crime scenes, wildlife, pine cones and power outages, though, surely you loved camp? I mean, at least your Mum wasn’t there…

  23. Since La Strega is already the Perfect Woman, a Living Saint and Absolute Angel, I have no need for such devices. (This statement is in no way influenced by my certainty that I would be ratted out by the Monstrous Regiment of Women if I said anything else.)

    • Welcome, Greybeard. We have the odd gentleman visitor now and then, we’re equal opportunity faffers.

      Regrettably, your certainty has failed you in this instance. Although my solidarity with my Sisters is usually rock-solid, we’d never dob you in for anything you wrote.

      Unless you sock-puppet Lobes and wrote that vile slur on women’s literacy, of course – in which case fleeing to Svarlbard wearing kevlar y-fronts would not save your goolies from our wrath!

  24. You are safe here, Greybeard.

    Glad to hear the kid got off to camp safely. Let us know how many zombies he managed to dispatch on the trip.

    Nope. I just hated camp. My stepmother figured this out and decided I’d benefit from spending as many school holidays as possible at Christian Holiday Camp.

    As you can no doubt see, she was sadly deluded.

  25. Only 2 hours until the bus gets in!! I’ve been mooning around the house for the last couple of days like the Sunshine Coast was Wuthering Heights and Heathcliff’d gone camping without me. I’ll try hard not to fall to my knees, sobbing “Never leave me again!” when he gets back.

    Christian Holiday Camp, hey? That’s double nasty. Maybe she was frightened that if you hung at home in the holidays, you might succeed the next time you tried to poison her . Or, maybe she was just a selfish cow with your worst interests at heart. Did she have a magic mirror, at all, your Evil Stepmother?

  26. The kind where all her own faults were reflected on me?
    Yes indeedely doodely, but I suspect they sold them at David Jones back in those days and from comment’s she’s let slip, I believe Catty’s mother may still have one tucked away in the small room out the back.

  27. No, mother never had one of those. She banned mirrors in the house when someone pointed out that she had no reflection.

  28. Were they pointing with a stake made of holy oak?

  29. I’ve always wondered about the holy oak stake. Since Australia is short on oaks (and, indeed, holiness) is there an antipodean substitute?

    Tea-tree has no structural integrity – it’s like rolled up newspaper – so that would suck in the heat of battling the Undead. Swamp mahogany, maybe? The blood-coloured resin would add an aesthetically appropriate touch…

  30. Not sure about the stakes – blue gum is nice and hard, would that do? Or as an alternative, I recently heard that echidna spines make ideal voodoo doll pins. The victim not only suffers sharp stabbing pains in the corresponding part of their anatomy, they also experience an inexplicable craving for bull ants.

    Mother has thwarted all who have attempted to extinguish her evil tendencies. I strongly suspect her ultimate demise will be as a result of choking on her own vitriol.

  31. “Eat blue gum, fang face!” Yeah, I like it. Nice to add a bit of local colour when vanquishing the undead.

    LMAO at the bull ants. Somewhat on topic, they’re planning to build a giant meat ant at Augathella. That’ll really pack the tourists in, hey? You’d need to stay over for a couple of days to have a proper go ’round a giant meat ant.

    Vitriol is acidic, I think. So with any luck, Catty, even as we faff your Mother is being slowly dissolved from her black heart outward. One day you’ll just find a smoking pair of fluffy slippers, slightly eaten away at the edges, and a nasty scorch mark on the carpet.

  32. Maybe they should put a giant bowl of cat food and a giant cane toad beside it.

    Am I being too obscure or has everyone had it beaten into them by the scientists that all it takes to off the cane toad population is a few tins of cat food and a few million meat ants?

  33. I’m getting v. depressed at the Writing blog conversation, is it just me, or should we all stick our heads in the oven ASAP?

  34. With you on the Whiskas. Did you also know that they’re trying to train quolls, native cats and the like not to eat cane toads by making cane toad sausages? They mix a controlled dose of emetic with cane toad meat so predators can learn to equate the taste of toad with sickness and steer clear, rather than gobble up a big one and cark it first off.

    Bless the CSIRO. Ingenious and hilarious. If CSIRO was a bloke I’d date him!

  35. 1. I suspect we listen to the same radio national programs.
    2. I know what’s on the menu at Catty’s house come mother’s day.

  36. 1. I wouldn’t be surprised… we ARE intelligent women of taste and discrimination, who loathe advertising 🙂

    2. Umm… poisoned toadstool quiche, served with a salad of rhubarb leaves and hemlock, followed by apple tart a la Snow White with extra poison in the whipped cream?

  37. My goodness, a little dose of nasty virus, and I miss all of this marvellous faffing.

    See you ladies on Sunday. Don’t run out of faff in the meantime.

  38. Don’t worry, Mayhem.

    The faff is renewable. In fact, I think it might be self-perpetuating as well!

    See you then (this is so exciting!) 🙂

  39. Mmm…Bacon.

  40. Ah…bacon.
    The only problem with the morning’s gatherings is that GC’s side dish of maple syrup for her bacon has been haunting me all day. Once we are done with the chores I am thinking of rewarding us both with a visit to the Pancake Manor (I know, I know, blame the PMS) for a stack of pancakes with macadamia nuts, whipped butter, ice cream and MAPLE SYRUP.

    Lovely to meet you, and the rest.

  41. Mmm… That little detail escaped my attention. Sweet, caramelly, delicious maple syrup! I knew I should have had the French toast.

    You sly minx, Quokka. We thought you weren’t hard enough to finish your bacon but you were just saving room for pancakes. I LOVE the Pancake Manor but I haven’t been in a couple of decades. Is it still in that old church in the city? Maybe we should have our next breakfast there – Greybeard would feel at home amongst the suits of armour.

    A pleasure to meet you, too. I’ve posted a synopsis – feel free to add anything I missed. Good luck with Assignment-from-Hell!

  42. It surely is.
    And it gets very busy, so we would probably need to book.

  43. If we leave it until winter, your pharmacology will be dispatched and the lovely bracing chill will make the steaming fluffy pancakes and sweet, sweet syrup….

    Hang on a minute

    Damn, we’re out of maple syrup! *Sigh* Weetbix again.

  44. The assignment is my only worry. After April 29, I’m free to gobble.

  45. Awesome. We’ll start… discreetly… testing the waters.

    When I say discreetly, I think you know which t-shirt star I’m trying not to attract.

    P.s (The brain isn’t the only thing that has lobes, the prostate is also so divided. And sits just forward of up the… well, you get my drift I’m sure)

  46. I always thought the name referred to the absence of function in the frontal area, no doubt due to one to many blows to the head.

    I believe its an affliction common in football players. Seen the front page of the Courier Mail today?
    I read a few of the comments below Alfie dancing on the table at the Normanby and some wit had said ‘just as well the Cougar wasn’t there, or he’d have had even bigger problems.’

  47. Hehehe. For a drunken idiot with a head like a robber’s dog he’s in reasonable shape.

    However, I think the undies of choice for table tap dancing would be anything other than white.

    I’m getting the urge to make a skid mark joke but I think it’s just the virus talking….

  48. Skid marks on the table top or on the car seat, when the coppers pulled him over?

  49. Hehehe.

    I’m just amazed that the footy team that employs him gives a rats. Since when has getting tanked, embarrassing yourself in and groping a few women been an obstacle to a job in the League?

    The way most of them carry on, you’d think that sort of hooliganism appeared under “compulsory” in their Code of Conduct.

  50. From the comments section in the Courier Mail (WHY do I ever read these?) I gather these things count as a character reference if you want employment elsewhere.

    I took a flying visit to PNB’s website but chatting/reading time is kind of limited. I haven’t paid much attention to Yuri but I’m sure I noticed at some point that his full name was Yuri Nahl.
    Which I’m assuming is the Russing spelling for that trough the boys aim for when they’re taking a piss at at the Normanby. Yes, I know they usually hit their own shoes or someone elses, but that’s not my point.

  51. Of course! Clever Quokka. I was toying with anagrams but I didn’t twig to the aural clue.

    He’s a character, alright. A bit wordy for me to really engage with, most days. Possibly a sock puppet, methinks, perhaps even puppetered by PNB himself?

  52. PNB, the man of many disguises, most of them on show at CBG, at one time or another. He really should turn his talents to commercial fiction.
    Well, that or industrial espionage. He’s a natural for both.

  53. I think he’s written a book, but his ego would get in the way of effective espionage. I’m sure he’s sufficiently intelligent, devious and underhanded; however an effective spy doesn’t jump up and down going “Look at me, people! Aren’t I fabulous?”.

    Don’t get me wrong, I like PNB – even his sexism is strangely palatable. For a Seppo he’s great value.

  54. Really?
    I thought the Boylans made their money manufacturing bottled soda.
    I drink the orange creams all the time.

    I know that its him, because if you peel the import label off, listing dozens of numerical ingredients, the seppo label says ‘only natural ingredients’.

    He’s a marketing genius.

  55. Hehehe.

    Well, in a sense he’s probably got a point. Arsenic is natural, as are Mercury and Thallium. Natural, occuring on this fine planet, but not good for you. I think if the orange creams contain Curium and such you may have Boylo on a technicality. They’re highly unstable and not usually found outside a lab setting.

  56. Not unlike the CEO.

    I credit the tartrazine with magical curative properties for inertia.
    ADHD, my ass.

    I’m celebrating the arrival of a giant yellow stripe across my driveway. The Irish have been parking us in. Turns out while they think its socially acceptable to park across a FKN driveway they have a terrible, terrible fear of bright yellow lines.

    Which is too bad because I’d asked the council parking inspectors to be vicious with fines for those who couldn’t tell the difference between ordinary tarmac and yellow paint. Who’d have thought the Irish would know that a yellow line = $85 fine?

  57. A lot of people have poor colour discrimination. Given that the Leprauchauns next door were probably raised in peat bogs, I’m thinking poor lighting with a predominant palette of greens and browns. Probable maternal alcoholism, and in-utero and developmental vitamin deficiencies and protein-calorie malnutrition.

    They probably mistake yellow stripes for orange, and shun them for fear of excommunication.

  58. Yes, I do tend tend to refer to them as the Bog Dwellers next door. Given that they no longer have a door to the Bog House (having kicked it in to rescue dear drunken Aisling a few weeks ago) it probably feels more like home than it did before.

    And yes, 400 years of foetal alcohol syndrome could explain a few things.

    I am busy watching the radar to see if all those happy campers up at the dams are in for another soaking like they got last night.

    Cackle cackle. Camping. Serves them right.

  59. I saw a divine luggage label while gift-shopping for a friend the other day. A beautifully dressed woman stood in the middle of a city street, saying:
    “How wonderful not to be camping”.

    Indeed. Excuse me while I go and give thanks for my roof, flushing toilet and hot water on demand.

    And have a Good Friday!

  60. You too.

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